I Hate February
by SmileyBlueEyes48
Summary: 2nd chapter same format as the first. Guess there IS no such thing as a Goren overload.
1. Default Chapter

DISCLAIMER: I own none of the following people, except the ones I made up.

Eames dashed toward the elevator, cramming folders and papers into her bag and praying the doors wouldn't close. She looked up and saw three people watching her approach from the inside. A hand reached out to keep the door open. She slowed her jog to a power-walk and smiled gratefully as she crossed the threshold.

"Thanks," she sighed, recognizing the other detectives. Bishop, her partner Vaughn, and Logan nodded politely and returned their gazes to the nothing-in-particular people stare at in elevators.

Finally Eames had everything organized. Relaxing into complacency, she shoved her hands into her coat pockets. The crinkling of paper startled her and she pulled out a pink envelope. She grinned. "Happy Valentine's Day," she whispered to the handwriting on the fold.

Bishop craned her neck, then remembered it was none of her business and cleared her throat awkwardly. "Is it? Oh, yeah… You too."

"Thanks." Eames read the card with a tiny smirk and put it back in her pocket.

The little space hummed with the tension that comes after a failed attempt to make conversation. Bishop cleared her throat again.

"Is that from Goren?"

Three pairs of eyes turned on her. Eames shook her head. "No. My friend, Terry. He must've put it in my pocket when I wasn't looking."

"Oh. I thought…" Bishop let her sentence trail off, feeling foolish.

"A lot of people think so," Eames said to alleviate the embarrassment. "Goren's one of my closest friends and I love him very much, but the thought of getting involved with him like that makes me shudder. He's too much. Kind of a project."

"Oh. Yes. I see what you mean."

Logan snorted. He and Vaughn traded glances like men do when they know women are lying.

The doors opened on the twenty-first floor. Four detectives joined the rest in the conference room amidst the chatter of people who counted on being very bored soon.

Eames recognized a few of the more famous detectives, but there had to be two dozen people she didn't know crowded around a long, wooden table. She took a seat next to some people from Special Victims she was acquainted with and waited for Goren.

Olivia Benson smiled friendlily. "I haven't had a chance to congratulate you on the baby yet."

Eames raised her eyebrows. "Wow. It's really been awhile."

"I know. Sorry. How's he doing?"

"Fine. He's crawling around with the best of them."

Nearby, Detectives Green and Fontana swiveled their heads. "A baby?" said Fontana, smiling broadly. "Wonderful! How old?"

"A little less than a year," answered Eames, shaking his outstretched hand.

"Oh, you look great." He turned to Green. "I love babies."

"Yeah, they're cute," Green answered noncommittally. He flashed Eames a dazzling smile that prompted her to tell him she wasn't married and the baby wasn't hers.

"I surrogated for my sister," she blurted out. "He looks just like her. Want to see?"

"Let's see!" Fontana beamed down at the wrinkly-faced lump in footy pajamas. "He's got your nose."

"How can you tell?" Babies had a bad habit of looking alike. If Eames ever had to pick the kid up from the nursery she'd just grab the cutest one and hope her sister wouldn't notice.

"I've got an eye for faces," said Fontana.

The door opened on last time and Goren lumbered in, looking lost. At the sight of a few familiar faces he relaxed a little and took the last open seat, next to Stabler.

"Hey, Bobby, how's it going?" Special Victims tended to be a little friendlier than Major Case about names.

"Fine… Elliott. Yourself?"

"Can't complain."

_Won't complain_, Olivia thought, but she kept her mouth shut.

With everyone at the top of the ladder now present the meeting began. A mousy little man stood at the head of the table between Cragen and Deakins, shoved his glasses higher on the bridge of his nose, and presented a box full of folders.

"Good morning," he began in a surprisingly powerful voice. The crowd mumbled in response. "As most of you know, charges have recently been filed against several of our detectives for sexual harassment. The whole event was, of course, a big misunderstanding…" He trailed off for a moment, allowing anyone who didn't know what was going on to ask. But everyone knew.

Three officers discovered an unconscious woman at a crime scene. One called for paramedics while the other two applied first-aid. They detected a pulse, but it was weak, so they administered CPR. She came back into consciousness with a jolt to find three men surrounding her, one with his hands on her chest, one with her lipstick on his mouth, and one on a cell phone. She called her lawyer the next day, claiming that she'd fainted from the shock of seeing her friend shot and there was no need for the officers to do anything but splash a little water on her face. That was probably true, but she was quite overweight so a pulse was difficult to distinguish, so the cops were in the right.

The speaker continued as the new guides were being passed out. "But for future reference, we've updated our rules and regulations. Please turn to page one, or, _In the Event That an Officer is Requested Specifically_."

There was the muffled sound of throat muscles constricting as over twenty people suppressed a simultaneous groan. The folder was packed with hours worth of reading.

x-x-x-x

Olivia took a look around the room at her friends and coworkers. None of these men would _ever_ behave inappropriately toward a victim. She glanced at Munch, clicking his pen, off in his own little world. He couldn't be cruel if he tried. Sure, his sarcasm could bite sometimes, but _honestly_. Then there was Fin. He was a little rough around the edges, but she couldn't picture him being improper.

She turned her eyes on her own partner. Elliott and Bobby seemed to be passing notes to kill the time. Elliott was a bit of a loose canon, but the day he bothered a woman was the day the Hudson turned into chocolate milk.

A low chuckle interrupted the speaker's drone. Green stifled his laughter and tried to pretend to cough.

"Is there something you'd like to share with the class, Ed?" asked Deakins, peaking over the top of his grandfatherly spectacles.

"No sir," he answered, serious. "Sorry, Ben. Continue."

The speaker (Ben) picked up exactly where he left off as Olivia looked at Green and Fontana. Green was handsome enough not to have a problem with women, but there was something sinister beneath Fontana's sweetheart persona. Still, sexual harassment was probably an activity he had very little practice in.

She had thoroughly convinced herself of the pointlessness of this meeting when she felt a light kick under the table. She looked at Elliott, who lowered his eyes to a piece of paper he'd scooted across the table without her noticing. Quietly, she unfolded the paper and read the message.

"**What are you looking at?"**

She wrote back neatly as she always did, in big, easy-to-read letters.

"NOTHING"

He took up his pen and responded, pressing down hard, as usual.

"**Liar. Your checking us out. Harrasser."**

She fought a grin and answered.

"YOU CAUGHT ME"

She flicked the note back to Elliott, but her aim was off and it landed on Goren's notebook. Her heart stopped as he opened it, read the short conversation and added his own two cents. She worked to decipher his perfectly spelled, punctuated and spaced message in the pointy left-handed scribble.

"_Don't worry. I won't tell. Nice jacket, by the way."_

She grinned at him and mouthed, "Thanks."

The boys went back to their written discussion and Olivia considered Bobby. True, she didn't know him very well, but she could tell that of all the men in the meeting, he was the least likely to disrespect a woman.

Come to think of it, she wouldn't mind being harassed by him one bit.

She forced that thought out of her mind, immediately feeling embarrassed. Then she hesitated. Examined the idea. Heck, it's February. Plastic pink hearts and shiny red napkins are everywhere. She had a right to think anything she wanted to think about anyone. She wasn't twelve years old.

Leaning back in her chair, she thanked God that her thoughts were just her thoughts, and indulged. Her mind would never stay on anything but romance for long this month. Might as well stop punishing herself over it.

Bobby was the kind of man who _noticed_ a woman. If you dyed your hair three shades darker because it brought out the blue in your eyes, he'd stop you in the hall and say, "Hey, did you dye your hair two—maybe three shades darker? I like it. It brings out the blue in your eyes."

A few nights before, she'd had a rough night and remembered her dreams unusually well. The last one stuck out specifically in her mind, because it was so unexpected. In her apartment, she was standing in her living room when the sound of running water and the smell of vanilla drew her into the bathroom. Bobby stood, illuminated by candlelight, grinning sympathetically by a luxurious bathtub. "You've had a hard day," he said. Her clothes vanished. "Get in." She did as he ordered and watched, lightheaded, as he shed his suit and tie, and climbed in with her.

Moments later her alarm clock had jolted her awake and she lay in bed, as drenched as if she had just crawled out of that tub. She spoke with Dr. Huang about it, after omitting certain details, and he had a reassuring explanation. He said the bath water represented an emotional struggle that would leave her stronger when it was done, and the part about being naked in front of Goren was symbolic of the vulnerability she felt in his presence. No one could hide anything from him. It was perfectly normal.

She didn't tell him anything about Goren joining her beneath the bubbles. Huang had no idea how badly he did _not_ want to know.

Know about the intoxicating gentility of Bobby's touch. The moist, warm, achingly slow kisses. How good it felt to be surrounded by water with his big, strong body on top of hers.

A loud crash brought her back to the reality of the meeting. Ben dropped the projector. As Cragen helped him pick it back up, she realized her eyes felt crusty, like she hadn't blinked in awhile. She also realized she'd been staring at Bobby. He sent her half a grin, which she returned, blushing deeply. She shifted her weight on the seat and crossed her legs to keep the fire alarms from going off.

x-x-x-x

A little way down the table, an ice queen was melting. Bishop sat next to her partner, trying to pay attention. Trying and failing.

It would help if Vaughn didn't look so much like Goren. Their personalities were polar opposites, but they could easily pass for relatives. It _was_ good that Vaughn was different—and it wasn't. She worked much better with the new guy, but as much as she hated to admit it, she'd grown attached to Goren. He'd become something of an icon in her mind. Not because of his skill, brain or reputation, but for his enigmatic smile. And other things.

He was the symbol of something tragic. Some deep-set angst he seemed to wallow in every night, and still reek of when he came to work the next morning to spend time with what seemed to be his only joy. Without the strenuous mental exercise of Major Case he was miserable. She'd bet he cried every Christmas, Labor Day and Thanksgiving. There's nothing sexier than a man with agony permeating his soul.

At night, when her mind drifted off before sleep, it wandered into places she ordinarily wouldn't let it. Goren came to her like a specter at least once a week. An exquisite, gothic figure that approached from the shadows to where she stood, paused near her, behind her, and lean in, entirely too close to her. His hands slid around her waist, up her front, as soft lips rose from her shoulder to her neck to her pulse behind her ear.

When she and Vaughn were working late, he would furrow his brow over his paperwork and she'd flash back. She wanted to crawl across his desk, draw him near by his tie, bring their lips together and pull him down on top of her.

She shook herself. Jesus, when did she become one of the pack, trailing behind the Great Goren with her tongue hanging out of her head? Enough of these thoughts. _You're just pissed because you don't have a Valentine. Rent a Meg Ryan movie tonight and get over it_.

She succeeded in bringing herself back to the meeting. For about five seconds.

x-x-x-x

Across from Bishop, a curly-haired woman named Susie Walker pretended to take notes, but was really drawing hearts with arrows through them in the margins of the manual. She wasn't thinking about Goren as the other girls were. Her mind was everywhere. She had a song in her head, she was planning dinner, she was wondering if that story about St. Valentine was myth or fact… Oh, and she was thinking about Goren.

She didn't think about him as dangerously as the other women did when they thought of him. After all, she was happily married. But her husband was out of town on business this week and her day of romance this year was a bust. Flickering images of romantic figures danced in and out of her Adult ADHD mind, several different people in dozens of different situations. But for whatever reason, Goren occupied a little more space than usual. Probably because his desk was right behind hers and he'd been on the phone all day yesterday.

A movie of single-framed pictures and sensations played through her head: Goren's hands, Goren's grin, Goren's eyes, Goren's shoulders, Goren's legs, Goren's hair, Goren's intensity, Goren's propriety, all that and more playing to the soundtrack of Goren's hypnotic, seductive, reassuring _voice_.

Once in awhile, when he was mumbling something to Alex or to the person on the other end of the phone line, she'd just sit there and listen, neither knowing nor caring what he was talking about. Particularly when he was on the telephone, speaking in low, intimate tones with the other person, letting them know it was just them who mattered right now without saying it. As long as she lived, she'd never forget the day he spoke with a suspected Mafiosi's mother in Italian.

"There's nothing to worry about. We just want to ask him some questions. Stop crying, please, it breaks my heart when you cry. Everything is going to be fine.

She looked up at him, just for a moment, before her never-settled mind wandered back to _Phantom of the Opera_.

x-x-x-x

Natalie Campbell sat at the very end of the table, making no effort not to look bored. She never seemed to make it out of the teenager mentality. She'd climbed to the highest position imaginable for a woman in her mid-twenties, just to show her parents she could. She refused to speak with her brother, even over the phone, because the day she moved out he put itching powder in her body talc. She taped the episodes of "Gilmore Girls" and "Everwood" she had to miss on late nights of paperwork. And she had a crush on Detective Goren more intense than her previous infatuation with her sophomore year chemistry teacher.

Leaning her head back to make counting ceiling tiles easier, she felt the familiar gut-tightening urgency associated with Detective Goren being in the room. While she was certain he had no idea she even existed, that didn't keep her from flushing like an idiot when they passed each other in the hall or caught the same elevator.

Two days ago, she got a call from her roommate that her dog had blood in her urine. The vet had called her on her cell phone yesterday, as she stood by the coffee machine, to tell her that Tilly had a little infection that could be cleared up, but would be expensive. After a tearful, anxious conversation over the Sweet-N-Low, Natalie agreed to do whatever was necessary, hung up, and turned around to see Detective Goren with his back to her, looking in the cabinets for more stirrers. It was the one time in her career she hardly noticed he was there.

She decided this was a good sign. She was getting over it. Just like she had Professor Redford. No more interrogation room daydreams involving the flat metal table and a securely locked door. No more thoughts of rocking squad cars with foggy windows. No more wondering _What else does he know_? Any man who knows how to make a bomb out of Alka-Seltzer and orange juice had probably read a few books on…

Stop that! This is not healthy. Bad Natalie, bad.

She changed a glance in his direction. Oh, brother. He'd slipped off his jacket and was rolling up his sleeves and there were those sinewy forearms and thick wrists…

Enough!

She sighed and once again tried to talk herself out of the heat she felt swelling up inside her. _Come on, he's—like—seventeen years older than me _and_ a Leo _and_ addicted to his job_ and _a perfectionist… which isn't always a bad thing. _A flood of saliva welled up on either side of her tongue. Disgusted, she looked out the window to watch the birdies fly.

x-x-x-x

Alex Eames noticed that it was growing hot in the conference room. Almost like everyone was suddenly running a fever. She had no idea why. _She_ was not thinking of Goren, although she had more right than any of the other women to. She'd seen him at his highest, his lowest, his sweetest, his meanest, his hottest and his coldest, and she was in no way stimulated by it.

The day they spoke with the zookeeper in the reptile house and he'd asked if he could see the boa constrictor, she'd rolled her eyes but couldn't hold back the smile. His inner child refused to stay "inner" sometimes.

The night they'd heard Nicole Wallace was "Not Guilty" on all charges, she'd come to his apartment to find the place thick with cigarette smoke and him drunk as can be on his couch, drowning in self-pity and watching _I Love Lucy_ on television. For one mortifying moment, she thought he was going to cry. She opened a window, took the whiskey from him, turned off the TV and helped him into bed.

All the times he'd stood while she took the last chair or subway seat were not bookmarked specifically in her memory. He simply understood that women had a tendency to wear uncomfortable shoes and was considerate enough to give them a rest while he was still painless. Or when he'd lent her his jacket or trench coat when she'd forgotten hers. He just _did_ that. She'd seen countless women, men and children come in and out of the building next to him, coattails dragging the floor.

She'd scold him for rude comments or gestures he made about the people they met, regardless of how racist, sexist, anti-Semitic, homophobic or Right-Wing they were. She preferred to tell people she had a problem with them to their faces. He would politely wait until they were out of earshot and express his opinions in detail with a wide variety of synonyms for "moron" in several different languages.

She was one of the only people in the building who had ever seen him dance. There was a grace to his awkwardness, and all his poise and charm took over any clumsiness when he was on the floor. Her heart didn't skip when he danced. Lots of people dance.

There was one time in her memory when she considered his potential as a husband and father. Not even _her_ husband. Just somebody's. He came over to her place one Saturday afternoon to find that her nephew was spending the day with her. She'd convinced him to stay—he obviously had something on his mind. There was something about the case they were on that didn't sit right with him. She'd wandered into the kitchen to fix the baby a bottle, shouting ideas over her shoulder and not paying much attention to the kid. He was fine with Goren.

Before long, the living room grew quiet and she got worried. She peaked around the door to see that the boy had crawled into Goren's lap, to which Goren had no objection. However, Eames's couch was just too comfortable for the weary detective to stay awake on. Decked out in fatherly blue jeans and a baseball t-shirt, he fell asleep with his head back and the baby on his chest, also napping. She laughed and let them sleep, until the baby drifted back into waking and made little fussy noises like babies do. Goren came back to life with a jolt and instinctively checked everything on the kid before sauntering into the kitchen and declaring, "He's hungry."

Eames didn't think of any of this through the meeting. Goren was her partner. More than a friendship, less than a romance. She really, really wished people would stop telling her how cute they looked together. Five-foot-three next to six-foot-four. Ha ha. Funny.

x-x-x-x

At last the meeting broke up and everyone got to their feet. Eames found her way to Goren's side. Elliott and Olivia did the same, as did Bishop and Vaughn and Green and Fontana and all detectives always do. She was about to ask him if he wanted to get something to eat or look at the files first, but he needed to speak with someone.

"Just a minute," he said. "I'll be right back." He maneuvered himself through the crowd and found a young woman stacking papers in a dejected fashion. "Natalie, hi."

She gawked at him. "H-hi," she sputtered.

"I don't mean to pry, but the other day I overheard you on your cell phone and you sounded pretty upset. How's your dog?"

Eames rolled her eyes. That's exactly the kind of thing he'd wonder.

"F-fine," said Natalie. "She's got a urinary tract infection. We're going to get her all taken care of."

"Oh that's good," said Goren, flashing a boyish grin. "My animals have had those too. She'll be fine. Hey, I gotta go. You take care now. It's nice to meet you."

He shook her hand and left her with an expression on her face everyone would recognize. _He knows my name_.

Eames passed through the door he held open for her to start her day with a man who didn't know he was a marvel.


	2. I hate March

DISCLAIMER: I don't own Bobby Goren. If I did, I wouldn't share.

x-x-x

It was a huge comfort to the residents of the Welles apartment complex to have a cop on the third floor. Not just any cop, either: Detective Robert N. Goren, Major Case Squad. Mrs. Flaherty once referred to him (after he left the Laundromat where the tenants do their jeans) as a soda machine with a head.

"At least that head has a brain in it," she continued senilely. "When he talks you get conversation, not pop."

So the girls on his floor took to calling him Big Pop. He didn't get it, but he didn't ask.

Everyone knew him because everyone knows each other in nice apartment buildings. Of course, not everyone liked him. He was just too right-brained and left-winged for some people. Most thought he was an arrogant, know-it-all jerk, and they may have been right. But if there was any kind of ruckus that requited an authoritative figure to step up, no one stood in Bobby's way. Liking and respecting are two different things.

Those who did like him _loved_ him. A fresh-out-of-college art major named Sid McCann would shift anxiously from one foot to another every time they spoke, waiting for the magic question. Then it would come at last. "Done any more sketches lately?"

She'd beam and present him with her sketchbook, reveling at the attention and aching for his opinions. "This one's one of my favorites; you're great with pointillism." "Now, I don't mean to sound like a critic, but if you ever consider doing this one again, you might consider putting the light source on the left and completely shading the right half of the face. Adds mystery." "Is that Stan Kindle down the street? You _captured_ him, Sid."

When he happened one day upon the picture she drew of him, she held her breath. His brow relaxed as he studied the sketch. At length, he sighed. "You caught me. It's perfect."

Her stomach knotted. "You don't like it?"

He shook his head and forced a grin. "I'm just thinking—I should sit up straighter."

Her art improved under his guidance. One evening, he'd brought his own thin portfolio. "In case you're interested," he said with a shrug.

"Very much so," she said enthusiastically.

He busied himself with something else as she slowly turned the pages. His talent was raw and untrained, without the formal taming that sometimes helps and sometimes ruins an artist. It would make sense that he'd never taken a drawing class. He devoted his studies to whatever would help him be a successful cop. How was drawing helpful?

Most were portraits of people she didn't recognize. Such a profoundly intimate look at people she'd never met almost made her blush. In his scrawling handwriting he'd jotted names on the lower corners, as though afraid he might someday forget them. His feelings toward every subject he ever studied were brought to life masterfully.

A tall, white-haired man labeled "_Jim,_" for whom Bobby obviously had great respect, showed up a few times. "_Eames_" was petite and beautiful, and Bobby's affection for her was evident. She was probably his best friend, the number of times she appeared. "_Carver_," a stony-faced black man, was not very well liked. At "_Nicole_," Sid stopped. She didn't like the power this woman had over her neighbor. "_Nelda_" was clearly pitied very deeply. "_Bishop_" annoyed him, but he knew it wasn't her fault. And finally, "_Mom_" nearly made Sid's heart stop. Love, regret, loyalty, fear, admiration and disappointment leapt from the page as she studies the frail, tiny woman, literally shaking on the paper.

Ah, the mystery of Big Pop. Sid wanted to piece him together like a Rubik's cube, but she knew she had to ignore that want. What fun is a solved Rubik's cube?

Among a few pictures of other tenants, she gasped at "_Sid McCann"_ and gawked at her own face. She could have wept when she read their relationship in his pencil strokes: sexless friendship.

x-x-x

If you needed someone to talk to here, break something. Then pretend the landlord was ignoring you, and ask Bobby to take a look at it. Keep your cool, though. If you're distraught and do something transparent (say, cram a shoe in the garbage disposal), he'll give you The Look, sit you down, and ask you to talk about it outright. That's a therapist's job, not a friend's.

Vivi Wood was an attractive, thirty-four year-old divorcé whose ex was Satan's younger brother and whose mother was the female form of Hitler. Over the three years she'd lived next door to Bobby, she'd become a master at inconspicuously ruining her shower. Which accomplished two things: one, she got a sympathetic ear and sensible advice from the smartest man she'd ever known; and two, she got to see him in her shower. Even fully clothed and swearing from time to time at the mysteriously bent pipes, he was _there_.

She often thought about him behind the foggy glass door. She'd washing him with a good, thick lather—particularly his back. Rinsing off in the clear, pressurized water, his curls would hang damp and loose on his forehead and she would not—oh, no way in hell—be able to resist him. They'd make love standing against the tiled wall, her legs around his hips, and it would be fantastic.

On nights when she thought of him there she'd fall asleep, pink and warm to the touch from the hot water, her hands behind her head in complete comfort. He could bring her to the highest climax she'd had in years in her dreams. If he ever touched her, she'd melt onto him and stay there forever.

But when he actually stood in her shower, she had to direct the conversation carefully.

"So, how's it going?" he'll ask.

She'll sigh. "Not too great." He'll furrow his brow at her. "To tell you the truth, this is just the most recent addition to all the stuff I have to deal with."

"Anything I can do?"

"No, I don't want to trouble you."

"Come on, you'll feel better when you get it out."

She'll look torn for a moment, then grin in appreciation and lean against the sink, starting her rant. She'll finish long after Bobby does, but he's too concerned to interrupt her. He can see she needs this.

When she stops, she'll be embarrassed for sharing so much.

"No, don't worry about it," he'll tell her. "I really don't mind." He'll give her once in a lifetime grins. "You know, in the end everything will work out just fine for you. I know."

She'll smile shyly in return and stand on tip-toe to kiss his cheek. "Thank you."

"You're welcome."

"At least let me pay you."

He'll cock an eyebrow and she'll throw up her hands. "All right. No money. But I'll think of something."

His voice naturally drips with innuendo, so he means it with all possible innocence despite the sound when he says "I'm sure you will."

x-x-x

Carol Crowe lived down the hall from Bobby and thought about him only when she saw him. She was happy with her life and her husband. It was her granddaughter she was worried about, living with them after her father died of a heart attack, God bless him.

Little Sammy was fourteen years old and had always been something of a tom-boy. Boys were beneath her, and she'd never noticed a man who wasn't grinning at her from the movie screen. The development of her attraction to Mr. Goren was a slow one. She knew he wasn't the kind of boy she _should_ like.

If she pointed him out to her new friend Megan, she knew the kind of reaction she'd get. The same reaction she got when she popped in "Swingers" or "Indiana Jones" and sighed over Vince Vaughn and vintage Harrison Ford. Megan's eyes would widen, her nose wrinkling slightly, and she'd say, "You think he's _hot_? Omigawd, _why_? He's got to be—like—_thirty_ something. And _so_ not… just _not hot_, you know?"

So Sammy kept to herself as best she could. But it was becoming increasingly difficult as the days went by. Especially after… well…

One time, after Mr. Goren's dad died, Papaw invited him to Mass with them, offering a church for his weary soul to take rest. Sammy, Gram and Papaw got dressed and waited. He was supposed to meet them for a quick breakfast and then they'd be on their way.

Gram looked at her watch. "He must not be used to getting up on Sunday. Sam, would you go knock on his door and remind him services start at ten?"

Since Sammy was done with her breakfast and her guardians usually took at least five more minutes to finish up, she had no objections.

She stopped outside his apartment door and knocked. "Mister Goren?" she said. "It's time for Mass, if you still want to go." No answer. She heard the TV inside, so she knew he was there. But there was no other noise, so she grew concerned. "Mister Goren?" She knocked harder and the door, unlocked and unlatched, fell open. She stood there a moment, wondering what to do.

She tasted iron in her mouth as panic snuck up her throat. Dad died with the TV on. Everything was fine, and then she came downstairs and her father looked like he was asleep as Katie Couric told them about a new book. But he wouldn't wake up. Sammy started to flashback in front of Mr. Goren's door. _Calm down. He's not going to die. He's healthy as a horse_. When she shook her father his eyes came open but he didn't see her. They never closed again.

With that image in her head, she charged into his apartment and followed the sound of the TV into his living room. As she drew closer, she heard him snoring quietly and was able to breathe again. The problem then became what to do next.

He was sprawled out along the couch, a thin blanket covering what it could of his long body. Huge socked feet poked out from the other end, propped up against the arm rest. She almost grinned and turned off the TV, deciding to let him sleep in.

When the drone of the news stopped, he snorted and opened his eyes for a moment, half-awake. "What are you doing here?"

She blushed. "I-I thought you were dead."

"Dead?" He closed his eyes again and ran a large hand over his face. "No, I'm not dead. My father's the dead one. Yeah. I just popped a Unisom too late last night and can't seem to wake up." He peeked at her from between his middle and ring-finger. "Who are you?"

"Sammy?" she said as though it were a question, hoping he'd remember.

"Hm." He was quiet again for so long she thought he'd fallen completely back to sleep. Suddenly, he threw the blanket aside and sat up on the edge of the couch cushion, rubbing his eyes and trying to bring himself to Earth.

Sammy had never turned a deeper shade of red. Not only was he shirtless, clad in only sweatpants and socks, but his morning erection was beyond anything she had seen before. She wasn't a virgin, and had seen enough swollen cocks to be accustomed to these normal bodily functions. But the fourteen-to-sixteen year-olds she serviced posed no threat of hurting her. Someday, if she wasn't prepared for Mr. Goren, he could very well split her in half like a wedged log. The thought of which moistened her up so good she was still self-conscious about any trace on her skirt through confession.

"Hold on, kiddo," he said, oblivious to the world around him and _on_ him. He stood and headed for the bathroom. "Give me fifteen minutes and I'll be right with you."

"Th-that Unisom is good stuff, huh?" she said lamely.

"Huh? What time is it? Dammit, I knew I should've taken that thing before Conan."

She watched his powerful body disappear behind the bathroom door and sat on his couch with her elbows on her knees until he came back out, fully wakened by a cool shower. "Thanks for waking me. Ready to go?" He placed his hand on her back as she stood, guiding her out the door like a gentleman. "You look nice today."

She wondered if it was possible to be ruined for other men at such an early age.

x-x-x

Lynda Marx was a black woman next door to Bobby who had never had a white man affect her the way he did. Once in awhile they'd share a smoke out on the patio and talk about the world and how they'd fix it if they were in charge. They were both arrogant S.O.B.s and they knew it. And they loved it. Occasionally Little Alex would join them, but she didn't smoke and rolled her eyes more often than she spoke, so for the most part she stayed away.

She sat on that patio every night she could, looking at the moon. When there was no moon, she looked at the stars. When the stars weren't visible, she watched the clouds. When the clouds weren't interesting, she'd practice blowing smoke rings. All alone on the third floor deck, she watched the comings and goings of her neighbors. Bobby was particularly interesting, of course.

Until recently, he'd had a hell of a healthy sex life. His girlfriends never stuck around long. They didn't know what they were getting into when they said yes to Bobby. His one-night stands were frequent, but Lynda knew better than to blame it on a sex addiction or hyper-active libido. The man was lonely as hell and didn't know how to deal with it.

Women of all shapes, sizes, ages, races and social backgrounds got out of the taxi he might as well call his own. Many of them came upstairs. Several of them stayed the night. Lynda snorted humorlessly when she heard them leave before midnight. Bobby was too afraid of disease, germs and heartbreak to roll over from everything that threw itself at him.

Damnedest thing about Bobby, he _asked_ if you had something. If you lied, he knew. He was a detective, after all. He wasn't so rude as to kick you out if you admitted to having herpes or something, but there would be no intercourse. You'd have a pleasant evening with a pleasant man and, if you were a skilled seductress, you might convince him to finger you up in exchange for a nice BJ.

Lynda had learned to judge what kind of night she was going to have by the sounds of their foreplay. Their bedrooms shared a wall, which was sometimes fun. Sometimes not. He was a considerate neighbor, but an extraordinary lover. Women she could tell were ordinarily silent cried out; the moaners became screamers; the screamers he had to shush, lest Mrs. Flaherty ask her the next morning how her opera lessons were going.

Once he'd gotten pretty rowdy when a petite redheaded woman showed up at his door with a friend and knocked boldly. "Detective Goren," she said. "I'd like to speak with you about the case, if you're not too busy."

"Of course not," Bobby began before the door was completely opened. "Come in, please."

The redhead and Asian woman she was with exchanged glances as they stepped over the threshold. Lynda still grinned about that.

The only time Lynda had actually heard _him_ scream was because of a sturdy-looking blonde lady from the South who must've been astoundingly flexible, incredibly strong and irrepressibly open-minded. Friday night wore into Saturday morning, and they rested. Around noon they woke up and went at it again for the rest of the day. All Sunday was off-and-on insanity. They both had every page of Kama Sutra memorized and were both _dying_ to try a few dozen Cosmo positions, as well.

They emerged from the torn apartment Monday morning and caught the same elevator downstairs. Must've worked together. Lynda caught a glimpse of her t-shirt, proudly proclaiming that this golden-haired goddess was a Scorpio. Well, that explains that.

For herself, sure, Lynda fantasized about sleeping with him now and then. Thought about one hand on the back of his head, one on the small of his back as his lips caressed her neck and his strong arms nestled between her and the bed, encasing her securely. Her ideas came from the scummy boyfriend Bobby chased away. Wolf by the ears, that man. The first time Shawn slapped her, Big Pop was at the door, pounding away and threatening to arrest him whether or not Lynda wanted him to.

The man was good to people. That's all there was to it.

This evening she sat outside, as usual, when taxi 5149 pulled up again. Goren got out and helped tonight's girl behind him. Well well, that blonde again. Who knows. Maybe these two can get along. Maybe she's not just a bed-warmer Bobby tries to convince himself he only needs for a night, once in awhile. Maybe.

Before the elevator doors open to let the animals in, Lynda crushes out her cigarette and goes to bed.

**Review, please!**


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